


Of Prophecies And Messes

by tjstar



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Prophetic Dreams, Sickfic, Visions, Whump, linked by destiny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22546039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjstar/pseuds/tjstar
Summary: After parting ways with Geralt, Jaskier keeps getting violent headaches and nightmares, gradually turning to visions, all about Geralt’s death.As a good travel companion, he has to find Geralt and warn him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 560





	Of Prophecies And Messes

When it happens for the first time, he blames his poor state on alcohol. Because why not? He spent the night out drinking, so _of course_ his body wasn’t going to thank him afterwards. He should have known. Jaskier keeps cursing himself as he trudges from one inn to another, and another, and another, diving into an endless cycle of singing, dancing with strangers, meeting friends and enemies. Repeat. Then repeat once again, finding new muses, witnessing new events to write the ballads about. The usual. He gets recognized from time to time, like _“oh, that’s that one bard who traveled with The White Wolf”._ The White Wolf, what an honor. Not _The Butcher of Blaviken_ anymore; it wasn’t easy to change their minds, so Jaskier should feel proud of himself. He would’ve been if Geralt hadn’t said all those things to him three months ago. What a bummer. They haven’t seen each other since then.

If Jaskier is a pain in the ass, then Geralt is a headache, an unbearable one, rattling against Jaskier’s thoughts, banging, banging, banging against his skull like a trip-hammer. Playing the lute used to be a cure, but now it’s not reducing his suffering, every note is way too sharp, scraping at Jaskier’s eardrums. 

“Where’s your ardor, bard?” 

A bunch of men guffaws at this. They laugh at Jaskier’s performance, threatening to leave him with just holes in his pockets. He’s the only one out there who knows the chords and the melody of the song. 

“This is not a funeral! Play something else!”

Another onslaught of pain is coiling in Jaskier’s temple. The booing of the crowd just makes it worse. The lack of a proper dinner in his stomach makes it worse. 

“Okay, ladies and lads,” Jaskier crosses the dimly lit inn. “Let’s do this…”

Something in his brain snaps. Loudly. As if he’s gotten punched in the back of his head, hotness spreads down his neck, the voices drown in obscurity. So does Jaskier, for a moment or two, until somebody grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him.

“Hey, bard? Had too much beer?”

Raucous laughter is like an arrow sticking in his ribs. No pity though. He finds himself sitting on a bench, leaning his back against the wall, still clutching his lute in one hand. The muttering around him might ruin his reputation. Men, women, some kids even are all staring at him as if he’s got four legs or fawn horns. 

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Must’ve passed out.”

“Is he drunk?”

“Of course he is!”

Jaskier wipes the sweat off his forehead and winces; a crippling headache doesn’t go away. Unlike his listeners. A middle-aged woman places a mug and a piece of bread on the table in front of him, very nice of her. A few coins are dropped on the floor, stuck in the cracks, it’s all he’s earned for today. 

*** 

Headaches keep excruciating him all the next week. No matter what Jaskier is doing, they’re always there, spiraling in his brain like snakes. Attacking him when he least expects it, when he just wants to distract himself; there’s the innkeeper’s daughter, a beautiful and innocent Sofia, with a charming smile, and bright green eyes, and, 

“We have an hour,” she winks. “I’m _dying_ to listen to your newest ballads, Jaskier.”

She unties the laces in her underdress. _Well,_ that’s gonna be something. He sneaks into her room unnoticed; he thinks so, at least. They don’t have time for a proper foreplay, and so not-so-innocent Sofia takes it in her own nimble hands, pushing Jaskier towards her unmade bed. She doesn’t ask him to sing a serenade for her, hooking the waistband of his pants greedily, murmuring sweet little nothings into his ear. 

And he gets another _episode._

Sofia is sitting in his lap, and the bedpost behind Jaskier’s back is as vague as candle light. 

“Slow down,” he presses his tremoring palm to his temple. 

His brain is just a well-fried piece of meat as his consciousness slips away, but the darkness doesn’t come. There’s a moving picture instead of an expected oblivion; not a dream but a vision: people with swords and makeshift torches run, falling, screaming and turning to a deadly mess on the battlefield. Another scene is much worse; there’s a tall, stick-thin man with a hideous appearance, he holds medallions in his hand, dangling off his palm like silver pendulums. They’re bloodied, all similar to _Geralt’s,_ presumably belonging to other witchers. The man’s face splits into a grin, baring his sharp teeth as he raises his sword and laughs, showing off his inhuman traits; his victim is lying on the ground with the blood staining his white hair, his eyes are half-lidded with the familiar golden light leaking out of the corners. _“Witcher, witcher!”_ the chanting grows louder, the sword gleams in the moonlight as it slashes the neck with the wolf-shaped medallion on it. Blood flows steadily, a river of death, so real, real, real…

“Geralt!” 

Tasting bile and his racing heart in his throat, Jaskier sits up; he’s shaking like a withered leaf ripped by the wind, and a wet cloth falls off his forehead. Sofia is still there, sitting by his feet and observing him with fear in her eyes.

“You scared me,” she coos, dress still undone in the most appealing way. “What happened, dear?” her voice’s dripping with honey, but it can’t kill the aftertaste of a nightmare. 

“I gotta go.” 

Heavy footsteps behind the door sound rather menacingly, and Jaskier is not as invisible as he wants to be sometimes. Sofia covers her lips with her palm, whisper-shouting,

“It’s my father!..”

The only exit is the window, so Jaskier tries his best to ignore the aftermath of an attack of his mind. He gives Sofia a quick kiss on the cheek before the door begins to vibrate under a hail of knocks. 

“Sofia, open up!”

“Hurry up, if you don’t wanna get castrated right there and then,” Sofia smiles sourly. “I packed some food and water into your bag,” she nods at it lying on the table next to his lute. “Go!” 

“You’re a treasure,” Jaskier blurts out, looking out of the window; he hopes he’s not gonna break his spine.

When the latch on the door finally gives up, Jaskier grabs his things and jumps out the second floor, landing into the lush bushes underneath. They softened his fall a little, but the flowers were mixed with rocks. He’s gonna lose count of his bruises tomorrow, definitely. Drained of any energy to move, he’s just lying there winded, listening to Sofia and her father having a rather thrilling conversation.

“Where’s that bastard?!”

“Who?”

“That bard!”

“He left with Joanna! Got to drink too much to stand her pimply face…”

Jaskier chortles at this, then looks at an empty pot hitting the ground and splitting. There might have been his head. Yikes. It takes a few minutes for Sofia to calm her father down, and Jaskier gets up, limping down the road and rubbing his aching back every so often. These are the risks he takes for a _friend._

Fucking witcher.

*** 

Jaskier can smell that awful metallic stench and taste ashes on his tongue; he wakes up coughing and wheezing. There’s the odor of horses’ sweat and human guts hanging off the swords. 

Less sleeping means more drinking.

He hasn’t eaten properly in a week, he hasn’t slept properly in forever.

Today is a _good_ day though, because Jaskier made it to the end of his performance conscious, and he’s about to get a bed and a warm dinner before continuing his journey. He’s sitting at the table with a plate full of meat and vegetables, with a jug of wine, and with his head light. Blissfully thoughtless even.

“Hey,” a hand pats Jaskier’s shoulder. 

Jaskier drops the spoon on the floor, recognizing the voice and staring up at —

At Geralt of fucking Rivia himself. 

“Uh-huh,” is the only response he can muster. 

He thinks he’s hallucinating. But his “hallucination” grabs firmly at the back of his doublet and tugs him away from the table; Jaskier is suddenly spineless, mentally saying goodbyes to his food. 

“You’re alive,” Geralt states. “You’re going with me.” 

Jaskier squirms in his grasp.

“Oh really? After all of that shit you said to me?”

“Yeah,” Geralt nods. “Exactly. I got a room,” he adds.

“Is this an _invitation?”_

“Shut up.”

“This is _my_ witcher, all cranky and grouchy,” Jaskier chuckles, pleased with himself. “You know, I kept getting those really, really weird dreams about you since you left me in the middle of nowhere, Geralt, and I suppose you’d be interested to listen to my story…”

“Jaskier,” Geralt manhandles him upstairs. “I don’t have time for this.”

Something in his voice makes Jaskier trail off. He can write him a letter, at least. 

Geralt leads him to a small room with a half-dead candle on the chair by the door; how dumb of him to leave the light like that, unattended. Jaskier opens his mouth to point that out, but his witty words eat themselves when Geralt sways, leaning to the door frame and huffing out a pained breath. The strands of his greasy hair stick to the sides of his pale face; this is when Jaskier notices that Geralt keeps clutching his right side, notices the blood leaking through Geralt’s shaking fingers. It permeates the waistband of his pants, trailing down his leg.

“Are you?.. Oh God,” Jaskier fusses around as Geralt heaves himself onto the bed. His armor is piled up there already. “Hey, hey, Geralt? What can I do?”

Geralt’s speech is slurred as he asks,

“Are you good at sewing?”

“Me? What?..” Jaskier’s heart drops to his stomach. “Well, I was in a short-term relationship with the tailor’s daughter once, and she taught me some things…”

“Stitch it up then.”

With this, Geralt peels his tattered shirt off, baring an inflamed gash under his ribs, skin sliced like a mouth, hungry for infection. Geralt takes a deep breath, and a bloody crust breaks, letting out a stream of pus and some other liquid. Jaskier is mesmerized by a horrible sight.

“W-what happened?”

Geralt reaches for one of his bags, emptying its contents onto the bed and taking a needle and a black thread, ready to use. 

“Nilfgaard sword,” he says laconically. “Poisoned, judging by my condition.” 

A slight movement makes the wound spew out more blood, too colorful against Geralt’s bluish skin. He points his finger at the sewing supplies on the bed, and Jaskier takes the needle along with a small bottle of something witchery. Geralt uses his teeth to take the cork out and pours the elixir straight onto an open cut. 

“Geralt—”

“Fuck,” Geralt moans, clenching his jaw as the potion forms a layer of foam on the wound. It burns the good skin around, leaving red scald, smelling like burnt flesh. 

The stench from Jaskier’s dream. He turns away and gags. 

“I… I can’t,” he whines. “I can’t.”

Geralt looks down at his injury. 

“Are you serious, Jaskier? I thought you stopped vomiting at the sight of blood.” 

“I haven’t eaten. Thanks to you,” Jaskier swallows.

“Saved some coin at least.”

Jaskier takes his doublet off and rolls up his sleeves; his head begins to ache again as he begins to stitch up the wound, combining the layers of skin, slick with blood. He counts to three, but the gash requires more stitches, and suddenly, Jaskier’s vision is doubled, fingers slack and ears clogged. He’s sliding off the bed and into a sweet, sweet embrace of a faint when Geralt’s palm smacks him across his cheek. A stinging pain and a slapping sound shakes him awake instantly. 

“Don’t pass out,” Geralt orders. To both of them, probably. 

Jaskier mutters,

“I feel fantastic.” 

He’s not a healer, he doesn’t know how to fix a witcher, and Geralt’s body is a patchwork already, stitched up by different hands, roughly, like a rag doll. Jaskier can’t stand it, getting queasy, holding back his angry tears as he punctures Geralt’s skin again and again, the thread comes out more and more bloodied.

“Good,” Geralt whispers, when Jaskier ties a small knot and cuts the thread with a dagger. “Now apply some bandages.” 

They’re not so fresh either, used and washed in the river at least twice, but it’s better than leaving the wound uncovered. Jaskier bites his lips as he wraps the bandages across Geralt’s side, there are also bruises imprinted into the outlines of his ribs.

“It’s done. A work of art, actually,” Jaskier tries to make his voice sound cheerfully. 

Geralt drops his head onto a sweat-stained pillow.

“Now you can go and finish your dinner.”

“Eh-h,” Jaskier looks at the red drops dotting the bed. “Later.”

The weakness in his knees leaves him tied down.

The hunger is long gone.

*** 

Geralt feels better by the morning, and Jaskier does not — he tossed and turned in his sleep, fell off the chair he was sitting in. He’s startled and confused, watching Geralt die over and over again and waking up covered with a sheen of cold sweat.

“What’s going on?” Geralt’s standing by the door already, back is as straight as a rod. 

“Nightmares,” Jaskier utters. “All about… That tall man killing you.”

He expects Geralt to leave him there _again_ after all, but Geralt says,

“Tell me.”

And Jaskier tells him.

*** 

They travel together now. Geralt’s riding the horse, Jaskier totters along, occasionally changing their positions. Rarely. Occasionally fighting. Again, almost like those good old times; _“I need you for your visions,”_ is what Geralt says. Jaskier pretends he is not hurt. Pretends he hasn’t stopped twice to dry-heave in the bushes.

“It’s Leo Bonhart who matches your description,” Geralt explains. “He claimed himself a witcher hunter, he owns the medallions of the school of The Wolf, of The Cat, and of The Griffin that belonged to the ones he killed. His trophies. I know he’s been following me for a while, but how did _you_ know about him?”

“From my dreams?” 

“Why did you start getting them?” this is mostly a thought, not a question. 

Jaskier shrugs.

“Magic is _your_ thing, isn’t it?”

Geralt ignores him instead of answering, Roach huffs. Jaskier laughs to himself, plucking at the strings of his lute at the same time — it’s funnier to die when you’re playing this lively folk music. Geralt doesn’t grumble — what a surprise — minding his own business and swaying in the saddle slightly.

“I don’t want you to get caught,” Geralt says, as if to himself.

Jaskier pulls the string so harshly he might rip it.

“Excuse me?”

“By them. You wouldn’t be able to stand the torture anyway. You better lay low somewhere where they will never find you until I kill them one by one.”

“This might take decades.” 

“You’re underestimating me.”

“At least, I’m a talented bard,” Jaskier winks at him. “And a lover.” 

Geralt tugs at the reins. 

“And a babbler.” 

*** 

Geralt kills the ghoul on the outskirts of Vizima. It all goes well, no wounds, no damage — except for the ghoul, of course. Poor dead thing. They get paid for both epic kill and epic singing, they get the room, and Jaskier’s head stops hurting for a while. Headaches come along with a general sickness every so often, and it’s hard to find a good healer in this area. This is what Geralt says, and Jaskier reads a hidden _I care_ between the lines. He cares, unemotionally and coldly, mostly a set of behavior traits adopted from humans. 

Jaskier likes to call Geralt a _wise_ man.

“If you could only see his face!” Jaskier laughs as they step over the threshold of their room. “Well, I haven’t seen his face, either, but I can imagine it! So good that I managed to jump out of that window right in time. Poor Sofia, she must be still crying because she couldn’t get me…”

Geralt doesn’t let him finish.

“She’d bawl her eyes out if she got you.” 

Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest as he sits down on his bed.

“What do you mean?”

“I bet you can’t keep your mouth shut even when you’re fucking someone.”

“Haven’t thought of that.”

“No wonder.”

Jaskier wants to add that Geralt might check it himself if he’s curious, but he’s not ready for a real fight; and Geralt also looked so proud of his clumsy joke he grinned. So Jaskier decides to leave his commentary to himself. 

Maybe Jaskier is a wise man himself. 

“Geralt?”

There’s still so many themes to discuss.

“Sleep,” Geralt mutters from his bed in the dark corner. “We’re leaving Vizima early in the morning.”

Geralt’s words work like a spell on Jaskier, calming down his reckless mind. 

***

“Wake up! Fuck, Jaskier!”

He’s been dreaming of fire again, of horses and Geralt’s death, and his head might as well explode.

“Jaskier!”

Geralt yanks at his collar, shaking him unsparingly as he hacks up the soot.

“Get up!” Geralt’s nose and mouth are covered with a cloth, and he pulls another one to Jaskier’s face; it’s wet, it filters the ash. He dresses up hastily. The inn is burning, the window frame is already ablaze.

His nightmare has transported itself into reality. There are horsemen circling around the inn, holding torches; the air thickens, devoured by fire. 

“It’s Leo and his goons. They want _me._ Not you. Run,” Geralt hisses into Jaskier’s ear as they hurry up down the stairs. The wood is crackling in flames, red hotness spreads like inflammation across the wound. 

“I’m not gonna leave you,” Jaskier replies before coughing his lungs up. “Ger-alt,” he chokes out, seeing a panicked men and women crowding next to the door, the innkeeper and his workers running around with buckets full of water.

Splash, another splash, as pointless as everything.

They barely make it out through the back door.

Geralt drags him to Roach in the barn, and Jaskier ties his bag and his lute to the saddle. And then, he hears a battle cry,

“Get the witcher!”

There are the pitchforks, more torches, surrounding them; the horses are startled, breaking free all at once; Jaskier gets a glimpse of Roach galloping along with the others, as he and Geralt are being smoked out of the barn. Jaskier falls, then gets dragged up on his feet and falls again as his head begins to ache so badly he sees white sparkles. He gets pushed down to his knees when a black horse appears; the man in the saddle is the one who kept killing Geralt in his dreams. Leo Bonhart. 

“Geralt! And... His little henchman,” Leo grits his teeth. Jaskier would’ve sworn he sharpens them on purpose.

All he feels is anger, taking the form of words.

“I swear I’m gonna write the ballad about how pathetic you are,” Jaskier looks him in the eye and sees his death. He hears Geralt swear on his left. “You may not believe in the power of my tales, but you’ll be destroyed by it, you _coward!”_

Jaskier’s ankle cracks under soldier’s massive jackboot. It’s not enough to break the bone, but enough to make him bite his lips and spit out blood.

Leo stops the horse, listening. Good, good, if Geralt has a plan he better start acting now. Jaskier has always been a professional at distracting people with his babbling. 

“Let him go,” Geralt is on his knees as well, being held by three large men.

“After all of his threats?” Leo rubs his scar-covered chin. “Never. He’s gonna go straight to Hell along with you, witcher.”

And then, there’s the tip of the sword pressed to Geralt’s neck, his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. Jaskier gets shoved forward, and Geralt says something — Jaskier doesn’t hear what exactly — but Leo’s horse raises its feet off the ground, tossing him out of the saddle and jumping over him and Geralt. 

The last thing Jaskier sees is the horse’s sleek stomach and a heavy hoof smacking his temple. 

***

“...er… Jaskier!”

His head feels like it’s been flattened out like a piece of dough. 

“Jaskier!” 

He’s either alive or dragged down to the depths of Hell already — he can’t ache this bad in Heaven, for sure. 

“Are you awake?” 

Jaskier opens his eyes and regrets it immediately. He’s lying face down in a pile of a foul-smelling hay, his right arm is either numb or has been amputated, and all he can see is the soles of the boots right in front of his nose. He knows these soles. 

The voice has a shape now.

Jaskier lets out an indistinct moan. 

The soles disappear. 

“Jaskier?” his name is accented with concern. “You’ve been out when they brought us there… You got hit so hard.”

“I noticed,” Jaskier tries to roll over and onto his back. His surroundings take a funny turn, mocking his upset stomach. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know. I got distracted by you falling unconscious and got knocked out myself. They tied me down and put a blindfold over my eyes,” Geralt’s still invisible in the dark, but Jaskier hears a frown in his intonation. “They’re gonna torture us for information before killing.”

Jaskier laughs helplessly. 

“Brilliant idea.” 

“Got any more visions?”

“No.”

“Maybe you just don’t remember?”

“I wouldn’t have lied to you,” Jaskier groans out. “I swear.” 

The rustling of hay can be considered as Geralt’s agreement. Jaskier’s eyes adjust to a meager lighting; they’re locked in the basement with a tiny window high up the wall. He wants to stretch his rigid joints, but the chain immobilizing his right arm is too thick, the handcuff is so tight that Jaskier can’t feel his fingers. He raises his free hand, touches his skull and almost sobs in pain. All the left side of his head is covered in blood, caked there along with straws and dirt, his hair sticks to a lump growing where the hoof had hit him. Lying makes him dizzy, so he eventually sits up, looking around. 

Geralt is chained to the opposite wall. 

“I found a rusty nail.”

“Congrats… And what are you going to…”

Jaskier doesn’t finish as Geralt shakes his hand and the handcuff falls into a tuft of hay, opened and useless. 

Jaskier nods.

“Good point, yeah.”

Geralt has just resurrected his last hope for salvation. Jaskier pushes his knees to his chest as Geralt crawls closer to him, holding a nail pinched between his fingers; it takes what feels like forever for Geralt to finally unlock the handcuff. Jaskier can’t tell if his wrist is sprained.

“Get up.”

There’s a bloody blotch on Geralt’s busted forehead, hair matted and unkempt; he squints his eyes at Jaskier’s injuries before offering a hand to help him get up. 

“What’s the plan?”

Geralt throws his head back and stares at the grid-covered window. 

“No plan.”

“And Leo…”

“...is going to disembowel you once he gets what he wants.”

Exhausted, Jaskier leans against the wall. 

“Great.”

He doesn’t ask what Leo might want from _him._

He _does_ fall flat on his ass when the door cracks open. With a solid kick, apparently. Geralt takes one of his fighting stances and lets out a low growl as a blurred figure enters the basement; Jaskier presses his palm to his chest to snatch his heart if it jumps out or bursts. 

“Step back, witcher.”

“You?!”

“You?” this is addressed to Jaskier. 

He waves his fingers lazily. 

“Hello.”

The starlight seeping through the window gets brighter, the visitor is revealed — Jaskier is not sure whether he’s happy or not to see _her_ there under such circumstances. 

“Yennefer,” Geralt grumbles. “Long time no see.” 

“I couldn’t track you down to tell you about my visions about your _death,_ so I thought your bard would be able to do that for me,” she nods at Jaskier. “Good job.” 

“Fuck,” Jaskier massages the sides of his head. _“You_ did that to me?”

Yennefer stares at him, somewhat respectfully.

“You’re stronger than I thought.”

Jaskier bows mockingly. 

“Merci.”

“Bonhart is going to put on a show in the morning. With,” Yennefer makes a swift motion with the side of her palm across her neck. “Decapitation.” 

Geralt presses his hand to his side, his palm comes away bloody. He bites back a groan.

“Why did you choose _Jaskier_ for your experiments?

And Yennefer’s reply is simple, 

“Because you two belong together.”

“Linked by destiny?” Jaskier interjects. 

“Something like that. The prophecy says…”

Yennefer doesn’t have time to enlighten them about what the prophecy says, because there’s two armed soldiers storming into the basement, swearing loudly and reeking of beer and sweat.

“It’s her! That black-haired kurwa! Get them!”

Yennefer’s eyes flicker with the flames of anger as she hears an insult; she outstretches her hand and creates a balled up spell that hits the soldier straight in the groin.

“Oh, my condolences,” Jaskier comments. 

He doesn’t quite comprehend what happens next, because Yennefer opens a portal, out of nowhere — the usual — and it sucks him inside like a funnel. His brain turns upside down, his eyes close. Jaskier feels the smell of food and freshly polished wooden floors; he also feels like he’s been dissected and stitched back together piece by piece. 

Maybe this is what has exactly happened.

*** 

It takes three more days for him to recover. 

Yennefer leaves them alone as soon as she portals them to the inn, but Jaskier is unconscious by that time. He doesn’t hear what Geralt and Yennefer are talking about, but it affects Geralt’s behavior somehow. 

Jaskier’s head still feels like a woodpecker tried to make a nest inside of his skull. 

Geralt looks much better. His torso is bandaged underneath his shirt, Jaskier sees the patches of cloth through his collar as Geralt bends over his bed. 

“I hate fucking portals,” he utters as Jaskier gives him a questioning glance. “She adores them though.”

“She saved us. And our Roach, and our stuff.”

There’s still a huge scab in Jaskier’s hair, but nausea has finally stopped clawing at his guts. 

“It’s just a matter of time,” Geralt says. “Leo Bonhart is not easy to trick.” 

And then he adds something that makes Jaskier’s heart flutter.

“We better stick together for a while.”

*** 

They stick together. As promised. Their togetherness grows into eventual closeness; they’re sharing the rooms and beds with lumpy mattresses and smelly covers. 

This is one of _those_ evenings when the hunt was a good one — Geralt got paid for killing a creature with an embarrassing amount of eyes, and legs, and fangs, all slimy and stinky, and Jaskier sang about it in the nearest inn. 

This is one of _those_ evenings when Geralt’s dry lips soften with a smile, elusive and heartwarming. 

One of _those_ evenings when they don’t debate who’s sleeping on the floor — because there’s simply no bed. No reason to ruin their friendship or what-else-ship. 

And, maybe this is a part of a prophecy as well, a destiny that keeps bringing them back together over and over again; no words needed, Geralt’s hand slides down the back of Jaskier’s neck, and that’s so poetic. Jaskier would have written a thousand ballads just about Geralt’s muscular arms. There’s something stronger than magic that doesn’t let them pull apart. 

“This is how we’re gonna do it? For real?”

Geralt doesn’t say an expected _shut up,_ moving like a hunter he is while Jaskier is melting underneath his clothes. He staggers backwards to a wooden table, flopping down onto it, legs wrapped around Geralt’s waist. Maybe this is another spell, a purpose, a dance on the bones of their enemies. This is how they’re gonna do it. Excitement is more intoxicating that both wine and ale.

Geralt smells like beast and herbs. 

“You’re so quiet,” he grunts before biting down Jaskier’s throat. 

Jaskier doesn’t dare breathe not to make him stop grinding against him, ruffling his hair; the table creaks under his weight, Geralt lets out a low growl. Jaskier is silent, but there’s the storm raging inside of him, a hot gush of lust. He wants to get rid of their clothing, all at once, but Geralt whispers a _“wait”,_ leaning closer and squeezing Jaskier’s thighs.

It’s hard to _wait_ when you haven’t been with anyone for months.

So Jaskier can only huff and cling to Geralt’s back with his nails when he can’t hold himself back anymore; he nuzzles Geralt’s shoulder as his pants stick to his groin. Shame punches him in the gut, his mind jerks awake. Geralt accidentally kicks Jaskier’s lute; it hits the floor with a thud. Like a sad accompaniment to his fail. Jaskier blinks at Geralt who’s still holding him.

“Fuck,” he exhales, tugging at the fabric of his pants. This is a catastrophe. 

But Geralt is unflappable. 

“Always keep forgetting that you’re still _too young.”_

Jaskier’s still trapped in Geralt’s embrace, and Geralt still doesn’t mind. Jaskier is ready for one more time — still too young, _indeed._

And Geralt is way too experienced. 

They’re just satisfying their desires, but their souls are tangled together. 

For eternity, maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm in love with their love and i regret nothing  
> \---  
> thanks for reading!


End file.
